Denial
by junejuly15
Summary: 'I think I figured it out,' Sherlock said, 'You care - You care for me.' - 'That's good. Good deduction,' John nodded his approval. Sherlock and John's struggle with love and Sherlock's willingness to go off on his own and play dangerous mindgames with Moriarty - Complete
1. Denial

In between writing chapters for **The Sheet **I like toying with ideas – the following story is one of them ;-)

Enjoy reading!

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><p><strong>Denial<br>**

'I think I figured it out,' Sherlock said. He was sitting in his usual chair, hands clasped in front of his face in his customary fashion, facing John in the chair opposite. 'You _care_. You care very much – for me – for my well-being. You care what other people think of me and of my conduct. You care how other people perceive me.'

'That's good. Good deduction,' John nodded his approval. He shifted in his chair, trying to sit more comfortably.

'The question I had to figure out, though, and which puzzled me a lot more than it should have is _why_ you care so much,' he fixed his unwavering stare on John.

'Yes,' John simply said, assuming he knew where Sherlock was heading with his analysis, but not knowing what deviations he would take to get there.

'There have been many indicators in the last months that you see me as a friend. And friends should, as I have learned from you, look out for each other, therefore care for each other. So far, so obvious.'

'Right,' John felt a cold hand tugging at his heart when it shouldn't be, not when they were finally talking about _caring_. He tried to read Sherlock's face, trying to find any indicator of where exactly he was heading, but his face was impassive.

'No, the problem lies deeper, it touches on something else entirely,' Sherlock unclasped his hands and leaned forward in his chair, the blueish light from the kitchen falling on his face giving him an icy glow, 'and I think it reaches farther, beyond the boundaries of friendship.'

John swallowed and looked at Sherlock, searching for clues in those steely eyes. He leaned forward in his chair closing the gap between them. Sherlock's gaze lingered on John's face. When he continued speaking his voice was free of emotion, 'I think it reaches beyond boundaries that I am not capable of crossing.'

Sherlock's words, spoken in his usual detached manner, felt like a hard slap across John's face. He fell back into his chair and his breath surged out of him leaving him dazed and shattered

xxxxxxx

He wants me to figure it out? Child's play!

Well, it's obvious, isn't it? He cares, he cares for me – The question is_ why_?

We share a flat, we work cases together, yes - But I am independent. I am my own and I need to be alone. Alone is what I have, alone protects me. I cannot be burdened with caring for others – it would take too much effort, too much energy away from me, from my work – it wouldn't do any good. I can't care while I'm working, it blocks me, impedes my thinking.

My _caring_ wouldn't have helped the people Moriarty used for his sick games. My _shedding tears_ over the old woman's death wouldn't have changed one ounce of her fate. No, what was needed was my concentration. I had to focus on the crucial, I had to find the clues to solve the riddles this madman had laid out for me.

I need to be able to _concentrate_ - always. I have no use for sentiment – Now, that's a concept _John_ adheres to. Sentiment! - It is a chemical defect, a distraction. Caring is a distraction. I really cannot care for others – and I never have. Frankly, I never saw the benefit of caring.

John cares, though. A caring lark. Need be – he's a doctor. It's essential for crying at people's bedsides. Showing _empathy_.

But _I_ need a cold heart and a high-functioning mind unhindered by sentiment. I couldn't exist any other way.

So _why_ does he care for me? I don't show affection, I don't do sentiment. I don't go for the ordinary – It must be something else then – something that reaches beyond the feelings he shows for his patients - something he would show to a person he … – Oh, for God's sakes. No! I cannot … I _cannot_ have this!

xxxxxxx

He really doesn't know. He has no clue. The only consulting detective in the world, the clever Sherlock Holmes groping in the dark, blind, not seeing the obvious - He's so bloody ignorant sometimes.

Of _course_ I am bothered when other people perceive him as a cold fish, as somebody shunning all social graces, as a heartless, arrogant prick - He is my _friend_!

Others don't see beyond that mask of coldness, of rudeness. How could they? They don't see that he has no choice; that he was made that way - like a race horse straining to run – and if you hold him back, he buckles and kicks. A rather queer simile, but somehow it fits Sherlock.

It hurts me when people make snide remarks or roll their eyes behind his back. I simply don't want people to judge him unfairly, people who don't even know him. Or who just assume they do because of hearsay, gossip or slander.

He chides me because_ I_ greatly mind being called a confirmed bachelor by the press – whereas _he_ minds being called a boffin - a bit. That's as deeply as it ever will affect him. He assumes – and of course he's right – that nobody can match his intellect. Therefore people's opinions don't matter to him. Therefore they cannot touch him. Therefore nobody can put a chink in his steely armour.

But people's opinions do matter to me because _he_ matters to me.

Because I care for him. I care – and - more, I fear. It's new and all so _vague_ – I can't grasp it yet – but I assume he wouldn't welcome sentiment in his life with open arms, wouldn't welcome the messenger of such distractions either.

I can't help it, though. Sentiment - feelings, eh? Silly old buggers, they are.

I want to believe that there is more to our friendship. That we can go further - and that he may have it in him to feel, to give himself to somebody, to open his heart, to love – me.

xxxxxxx

'Sherlock, you're only_ that_ far away from being famous,' John demonstrated how much by holding his index finger and thumb about an inch apart, 'You're not exactly a _private_ detective anymore.' John was sitting on the sofa reading the daily newspapers full of press coverage of the new net phenomenon, the clever detective Sherlock Holmes. He felt a growing unease with their new fame, 'We have to be more careful. The press will turn, Sherlock. They always do and they will turn on you!'

'I don't understand,' Sherlock looked over to John, he was genuinely puzzled, 'Why do you care so much what other people think? About me? Why would it upset _you_?'

'I'm just _saying_. Get yourself a little case this week. Keep a low profile,' John was surprised and exasperated because Sherlock wouldn't see the obvious.

'Why should I? I don't care what newspapers write about me,' Sherlock managed to sound defensive and aggressive at the same time, 'So why should it bother you?'

John dipped his chin, he could feel anger rise inside him, 'You are the great detective, Sherlock,' he challenged him, 'Why don't you figure it out?'

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><p><strong>AN** Well, I know - it's definitely nothing new - but I wanted to try to tell a story in reverse order and with alternating POVs. I hope you noticed – if you didn't I really made a bad job of it ;-)

Reviews would be lovely ;-)


	2. Farewell

Another chapter – I don't know where this will be going – exactly - we'll see ;-)

Enjoy reading!

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><p><strong>Farewell<strong>

He's avoiding me. No more than _Good morning_ or _Tea?_ - His mouth pinched, no eye contact.

He is disappointed, hurt. It astonished me how bad he took it. His reaction to what I said to him was as physical as if I had actually slapped him across the face. Ever since that moment – five days, three hours and thirty-seven minutes ago – he hasn't spoken. He neither conversed with me or exchanged thoughts nor did he chide me or put me in my place.

I don't know what to think of it – I'm racking my brain, and there's nothing - nothing I can compare this to – no cross-reference possible.

xxxxxxx

I can't look him in the eyes. I just _can't look_ into those eyes and find pity there. I feel like a right idiot! What did I expect? Was there ever a sign? – I mean, did he _ever_ do anything to encourage this train of thought? How on earth did I come to think he would see more in me than a friend – _that_ notion is novel enough to him – how could I expect him to be ready to take that leap? Oh, my God - I am such an ignorant fool – stupid, _stupid_!

I really don't know how to go on. How can we continue working together, living together – breathing together – when every time I see him, my heart clenches, my breath hitches in my throat and I must fear that he hears my heart beating.

For I am lost in him – all the vagueness is gone – all the insecurity – I _know_ what I feel now. Isn't that ironic? It had been Sherlock's words that did it. My body reacted as if on autopilot. I wasn't thinking, processing or observing, only reacting to those words.

I cannot ignore or deny what I feel, but what I can't do is take any more of his pity. It's the worst he could give me. Those quizzical eyes, those arched eyebrows – I feel like being dissected under his scrutinizing gaze – stripped down to my bare bones. It's unbearable.

I don't know if I can stay on.

xxxxxxx

He blushes when I come near him. I can almost hear his heartbeat. His pupils dilate, his breathing becomes jerky – yes, there are all the physical signs. I _was_ spot-on! He _is_ in love with me.

What can we do? What can I do? I'm at a loss - I think I will need your help, John. Will you talk to me?

I simply don't know what to do. I don't _know_ how to proceed - I'm not good at this – Shall I ignore it? Stick it out? Wait for it to pass? Shall I let him mope around for another few days? And then? Shall I talk to him?

I _will_ have to talk to him - But what can I say? I cannot give him what he wants – I cannot _pretend_.

xxxxxxx

'I'm going to move out, Sherlock,' John still didn't have the courage to look him in the eyes, so he had carefully chosen a moment when he could be fairly sure that Sherlock's buzzing mind was occupied – unlikely to register every bloody detail.

How wrong he was - Sherlock's head shot up from the microscope, his eyes narrowing in surprise, 'What?'

'I'm going to move out – I've been thinking about – um – our situation – and I think it best if we went our separate ways.'

Sherlock looked at him, his face betraying no emotion, his clear eyes unreadable. No response. John bit his lip; he couldn't stand his gaze and fixed a point slightly above Sherlock's head, doing his utmost to avoid his eyes. Sherlock still didn't respond, but John could virtually see the unspoken thoughts somersaulting in his mind, none of them finding a way out, though.

John cleared his throat, buying time, glancing back at Sherlock's eyes, waiting for a reaction, something, anything – and when nothing came he turned on his heels and stormed out of the flat. His eyes were stinging, he didn't want Sherlock see him crying, offering him yet another chance for pity.

If he had plucked up the courage to look back he would have seen hurt, sadness and regret flickering across Sherlock's face. But he didn't and so he left a Sherlock behind who was experiencing something entirely alien and new to him – an aching heart.

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><p><strong>AN** Would you like me to continue? Reviews would be lovely ;-)

For the sake of tension I stuck to the "conventional" narrative order in this chapter, but kept the different POVs


	3. Confusion

**John left in a huff and Sherlock's mind is spinning out of control - Will John come back and will they finally talk - or even more ... ?  
><strong>

**Enjoy reading!  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Confusion<strong>

Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen. His hands were placed on the counter on either side of the microscope. Dusk had come and gone, chased away by the dark night.

Sherlock hadn't budged from his place at the counter. He was sitting very upright, staring ahead, his eyes unfocused – one could have mistaken him for one of those marble statues for he was presenting a perfect picture of stillness. But despite his outward calm thoughts were coursing madly in his brain –

_John oh God don't leave me I cannot please not alone not alone not alone please what can I do he wouldn't talk would just not talk to me not my fault how could I have known I didn't know I don't know what can I do what is there TO BE DONE if he leaves me I will come undone I will fall apart he made me makes me he can't let me go down he cannot let me fall apart he won't do that won't do that won't do that I can't let him go I CAN'T LET HIM GO What do I have to do I will do it I will do it whatever there is to do I WILL DO IT-_

His heart was pounding a wild rhythm and he tried to calm it by in- and exhaling a few times. He didn't move or shift, though, his body remained utterly still._  
><em>

xxxxxxx

John had left 221b Baker Street and walked down the street not caring where his feet would take him. He wasn't a coward, was used to danger, had seen men dying in Afghanistan, had nearly left his own life there, too. But here he was, shying away from _eyes_, for God's sakes - _his_ eyes. They were reducing him to jelly, can you believe that? - John knew the root of his unease of course, he dreaded what he would see in those eyes.

If eyes were the mirrors of the soul what did those steely jewels tell him about Sherlock? That he didn't feel for him? That he didn't need him? That he pitied him? – That there was no way he could go back and stay? – John felt his eyes warming with tears. He blinked and felt some of those bloody droplets course their way down his cheeks. He gave in and let them flow, let them find their way down his face. Usually he would have wiped those intruders away angrily, but at this very moment he didn't mind.

He was crying for Sherlock who couldn't love him, was crying for their friendship, for what could have been. He was crying for a man who wasn't able to reach beyond the boundaries of friendship - that's what he had said, wasn't it? That he couldn't cross that boundary.

What he didn't see was that this word _boundary_ sounded so final, when it didn't even come near describing what loving really meant. Yes, loving meant_ crossing_ boundaries, but those boundaries were swimming, moving, not fixed, there to be crossed and re-crossed and to be torn down finally. And it wasn't only Sherlock who'd venture into the unknown, he always seemed to forget that everythig was new to John as well - they were in this together. If only Sherlock would pluck up the courage to act on instinct and to switch off this bloody brain of his.

But then again, what if Sherlock really didn't feel anything for John? What, if it wasn't just his emotional clumsiness? What, if he really over-interpreted the little signs? John growled in frustration and continued walking in the darkness - moving further and further away from their home.

xxxxxxx

Sherlock's mind had slowed down a bit, had changed down from frantic to merely keyed up. He was still sitting at the counter. He blinked and realized that night had come and that it had plunged the flat into darkness.

He slowly moved his head, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders cramped, making him wince. Tentatively he moved his neck in little circling motions, trying to loosen the knots. It hurt and he refrained from further movement. He sighed and gave in to the pain his neck was causing him from just sitting there. It didn't really matter, he had no desire to vacate this place anytime soon anyway.

Why should he? Where should he go? What should he do? He couldn't rest, couldn't sleep. Not without John near him. Not without his calming presence, without his friend - John. John who lent a peacefulness to his daily life that he had never ever experienced with anybody else. Without him he was restless, unable to slow down. He saw that clearly now - And the thought of losing him made his stomach turn. A bodily reaction to a matter of the heart? - Interesting. All those reactions he experienced now lent the word_ heartache_ a whole new meaning. Sherlock's lips curled in the ghost of a smile.

xxxxxxx

John came back in the early hours of the morning. The flat was silent and no lights were burning. John had walked up the stairs in darkness and didn't bother to switch on any lights in the hall or kitchen. He would have known his way around their home blindfolded and he only wanted to get some water anyway. He traipsed into the dark kitchen and gingerly groped his way to the sink where he filled a glass with cold tap water. He drank greedily.

'Why?' Came the low rumble of Sherlock's voice making John sputter the water and almost drop his glass.

'Why, John?' Sherlock's was soft, but there was an undertone to it. John frowned, Sherlock sounded tired and – defeated? John turned into the direction of Sherlock's voice, 'Have you been sitting there all night – Ever since I left?' John was glad for the cloak of darkness, not having to face him made everything easier. 'It's four in the morning, Sherlock!'

'Yes -' Sherlock said tiredly, 'There was no way I could move. I was paralysed - Paralysed with fear, by what you said to me. That you would leave and that you would leave me alone and that we had to go our separate ways. And you wouldn't look me in the eyes you wouldn't talk to me you wouldn't come to me and I needed you to come to me I needed you near me and -' he hesitated, 'and I realised that I can't let you go.'

The words had been fairly streaming out of Sherlock, his voice flat, soft and full of something that was so unlike Sherlock that John was sure he must have been mistaken. He thought he'd heard fear.

But John's heart leapt with the impact of what Sherlock had said. He peered into the direction where Sherlock was perching on a stool at the counter, but all he could see were the outlines of his body; his face and eyes were shrouded by the darkness. John had to rely on his sense of hearing, and somehow he felt heartened by this and his insecurity slowly started melting away.

He took a few steps towards Sherlock's voice. He paused, then he stretched his hand out in front of him, groping in the darkness. He tentatively strained his fingers further into the velvety blackness hoping for a touch.

When it finally came, the sensation of Sherlock's fingers ghosting over his own – he let out a sigh. Sherlock's fingers stilled for a moment before they gently traced John's palm and then he heard a stool scraping over the kitchen lino and he more felt than actually saw a shadow closing the gap between them. He lifted his head towards this shadow and felt the warmth of Sherlock's body engulfing him, enwrapping him.

John closed his eyes and leaned forward until his forehead touched Sherlock's chest. Sherlock let out a little gasp and then he tenderly moved his hands up John's back until they rested lightly on his neck. Ever so lightly as if asking for permission to linger there. John lifted his right hand and placed it purposefully on Sherlock's heart finding a steady reassuring pounding. He snaked his other hand around his waist, slowly, hesitatingly, lest this should frighten him away, but Sherlock didn't flinch or recoil so John relaxed and melted into the other man's touch.

They stood there, in the dark kitchen, relishing the gentleness of their touch, the closeness of the other and silently celebrating the crossing of a boundary.

'Why, John? What happened?' Sherlock whispered after a while, sounding genuinely curious, '_Why_ do you love me?' and that was such a blatant question, and one so difficult to answer and yet, thinking about it, the answer was so simple.

'I don't know what _happened_ - But what I know is that you can't plan on the heart, Sherlock,' John simply said.

'No! - You can't, can you?' Sherlock softly replied, and the tenderness, so obvious in those few words, surprised them both.

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><p><strong>AN** Well, they found a way to each other ;-) - I don't know yet where this will lead them, but: To be continued

I hope you liked it - reviews are always, always lovely ;-)


	4. Anticipation

**John and Sherlock spend the rest of the night together and John is in for a surprise - Sexy? Yes! – Smut? No! **

**Enjoy reading ;-)**

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><p><strong>Anticipation<strong>

John reached up to Sherlock's face. They had crossed one boundary tonight, and many, many more were waiting to be crossed. John wasn't sure if Sherlock was ready to take another step into the void soon. Taking his time he gently traced the lines of his cheekbones trailing down to his chin. It was still pitch black and John experienced the surrounding darkness as a cocoon enveloping them, offering them seclusion from the rest of the world.

Sherlock leaned into John's touch offering his face to him. He allowed to be touched and to be explored and John took advantage, moving his fingers over full lips, parting at his touch, tracing his soft cupid's bow. In fact, he was reading Sherlock's face like a blind man would, ghosting his fingers over the soft, velvety skin with a faint trace of stubble, following all the hollows and sharp angles that made this face so remarkable.

Momentarily satisfied he reached for Sherlock's hands and guided them to his own face, offering himself to be read by him in turn. Sherlock's fingers made his skin tingle, like the wings of butterflies, softly, softly, but then he took heart and grew bolder, exerting more pressure, running his fingertips along John's nose, his eyebrows, his cheekbones before they came to rest on John's lips. John had closed his eyes and was abandoning himself completely to his gentle touch.

He was an experienced lover and he knew that Sherlock wasn't. Sherlock once had casually remarked that sex didn't alarm him, but John wasn't sure if Sherlock had ever been with anyone. There was no way he could know. You couldn't just ask, could you? Crossing boundaries, that's what it was. John didn't know if Sherlock had ever crossed any boundaries with anybody.

John's eyelids fluttered with excitement, how could Sherlock just touching his face be so arousing? A slight movement, and for a fraction of a second he felt Sherlock's soft lips on his. This almost chaste kiss was over so quickly that he thought he'd been mistaken. He leaned forward, eager to find Sherlock's lips again, but the darkness had swallowed him.

'Come, John,' Sherlock whispered, 'Let's sleep.' He took John's hand into his own and led him towards his bedroom. They would be sleeping together – but there was a silent understanding between them that sleep would be all they would be sharing tonight.

John knew how to take this. Sherlock was opening his heart to him intending to let him be privy to a moment when he was at his most vulnerable - in his sleep. He knew that Sherlock had fairly steeplechased over boundaries in the last minutes and they would have more than enough time to share more than sleep in the days, weeks, months and years that lay ahead.

xxxxxxx

John stepped into Sherlock's bedroom which was as dark as the rest of the flat. He lingered next to the door not wanting to further intrude the privacy of his room unbidden.

He heard Sherlock walking away from him and assuming he might switch on a light he said, 'Don't, let's keep it that way.' He was unwilling to break the spell just yet and Sherlock understood. When he came back John felt the warm air in the room whoosh around them.

'John,' Sherlock's voice was quiet, tense, but not frightened, his breath dancing over John's face, 'John, I want you to know that I trust you, with all my heart.' He pondered on his next remark for a moment, but then he decided frankness was called for, 'I've never been so frightened in my life – I thought my heart would literally explode with pain when you walked out of that door. You were so cold, you wouldn't talk to me. That was so _unlike_ you –'

'I felt humiliated,' John softly said to the dark shadow in front of him. They were standing very close, feeling the other's presence vividly, so close that their breaths actually mingled, but they didn't touch.

'I was sure you pitied me, I couldn't take that from you – No - I wanted to get closer to you. I had made myself so vulnerable when we talked and you were using it against me. That's what I felt - I don't know. It's so difficult to explain.'

'You're doing fine,' Sherlock gently prompted him to go on.

'I feel like a right coward now, but I was expecting scathing remarks from you, expecting you to ridicule me and my feelings, cruelly dissecting me. In my mind's eye I saw you, pacing the room and rattling off your list of infallible deductions telling me _exactly_ why you wouldn't be able to love me – You and your bloody intellect making fun of me and my useless _feelings_.' John shrugged, Sherlock couldn't see this slight movement, but he picked up John's changed tone of voice.

'I know - I know it's not easy putting up with me. I am what people call _complicated_, to put it mildly. Even living with me as a friend must be _complicated_. I can't even imagine what it will be like when we will be _more_ than just friends. I'll probably make your life so hellish you'd wish you'd never come up with the idea.'

John frowned, 'You're making fun of me, aren't you?' he tried to make light of it, he wasn't entirely sure, though.

'That's good. Good deduction,' Sherlock said, mockingly repeating John's words from all those days ago, his voice smiling. I can hear he's smiling, what the heck - John thought.

'Listen, Sherlock. I'm knackered, why don't we –' and he let the rest of the sentence hang in the darkness between them. Instead of answering Sherlock reached for his hand again and led him over to his bed. They stood there – insecure, unsure what to do next.

'Why don't we take some of our clothes off?' Oh _God_, John mentally kicked himself, what a stupid thing to say – what a turnoff. But no sarcastic retort came, so he kicked off his shoes, and shed his socks, jumper and jeans, letting everything fall to the floor. Sherlock followed suit, then slipped under the covers. John heard the rustle of the sheets and the creaking of the bed; he waited a moment listening to his wildly pounding heart before he gingerly lifted the cotton sheets and slipped into the bed next to Sherlock.

He felt apprehensive, he didn't know how he would react in such close proximity to Sherlock. After all, this was exactly what he had been dreaming about for months. He moved and found Sherlock's warm naked back. He didn't want to frighten him away, but the urge to feel him, to get as close to him as possible - to move inside him - was almost overwhelming. He groaned. 'What's wrong?' Sherlock asked and turned to face John.

'Nothing. It's all fine. It's just that - feeling you so close – naked, touching you –um - makes me a bit dizzy, you know. I _wan_t you, want to touch you, make love to you, but there's no rush. I'm okay – um - with just sleeping.' John shifted in the bed, 'So, don't you mind me and - anything odd you might feel, actually,' he added a bit sheepishly and tried to find a comfortable position without constantly reminding Sherlock of his growing desire.

'John, I really don't – um – I don't know if I can –' Sherlock's voice was raw and husky, actually betraying his words.

'Shush, Sherlock, it's okay, it really is,' John snuggled up close and put his arms around Sherlock who settled comfortably on his chest. Carefully Sherlock placed a hand on John's belly, chastely, on top of the T-shirt. John closed his eyes and wiggled a bit to find a comfortable sleeping position.

They lay there for a while and John had almost dozed off when Sherlock ever so slowly sneaked his fingers underneath the hem of John's T-shirt ghosting over the soft flesh on John's belly causing his eyes to fly open. John held his breath when sensuous and soft nibbles were finding their way up his neck, lingering on his Adam's apple, eliciting a low moan from deep inside his chest. Sherlock quietly chuckled, and continued _expertly_ administering kisses as he moved his lips lower while at the same time his fingers were brushing John's T-shirt upwards exposing his chest. Sherlock kissed John's collarbone moving downwards, downwards - and John moaned with pleasure and he thought, _for fuck's sake_ why does he have to be a _genius_ in everything? He buried his hands in Sherlock's hair and pulled him up to his face pressing his lips onto his forehead, his nose, licking over his soft cupid's bow before plunging for his mouth.

xxxxxxx

Sex doesn't alarm me, that's what I said and that's how it is. I'm always blunt. I never beat around the bush. When I said I am not capable of crossing the boundary and going for more than friendship, that's what I meant. But the panic of losing John turned everything upside down as if something in me had been released allowing me to go forward. He had been afraid of pushing me, forcing me, but I would never do anything I don't want to do. It was so exciting to bring him to such heights of pleasure when he only thought about not imposing himself on me. He didn't, I wanted it that way.

xxxxxxx

He is such a bloody _actor_. I was played like a puppet - Not that I mind, oh no. Quite the contrary, he gave me what I wanted and what _he_ wanted, that much was obvious. But he bloody outwitted me again. And if I could see his face now it would probably wear that _we-both-know-what's-going-on-look_ which I usually find so annoying. I wouldn't mind it now, though, because we really both know what's going on – he gave _himself_ to me. I don't bloody mind at all if he had the upper hand or how it happened. Let him win, I'll be the graceful loser.

xxxxxxx

John opened his eyes and blinked a few times to chase away the remnants of sleep. He looked straight into Sherlock's eyes, mere inches away. It was the first time for over a week that he didn't shy away from those iceblue jewels and he relished that moment. What he saw was all he had ever hoped for. There was no awkwardness and no regret. He bent forward and kissed him, 'Morning, how did you sleep?' John couldn't stifle a yawn.

'I didn't, I just watched you,' Sherlock said, a tiny smile curling the corners of his lips.

'Oh, aye,' John was surprised, how could anyone not sleep after a night like this and still look like the fresh morning dew? Damn you, Sherlock Holmes!

Damn you - Who combines brain, beauty and sex in perfection.

Damn you - Who are mine.

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><p><strong>AN** I hope this was a worthy follow-up chapter and you liked reading it ;-) I guess there will be more to come ...

Reviews are such an incentive and I do love them, they tell me that I didn't go completely wrong ... :-D JJ


	5. Threats

**Threats - A mysterious text and Sherlock and John realize that after their first night everything - and nothing - has changed**

**Enjoy reading ;-)**

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><p><strong>Threats<strong>

John had just taken a shower and was drying his hair with a towel when the text alert buzzed, 'I'll get it for you, shall I?' John said and picked up Sherlock's phone from the coffee table. Sherlock, already fully dressed, was perching on the stool at the counter again, busy with the microscope. John paled when he saw who the sender of the text was, 'Sherlock!'

'Not now, I'm busy,' he replied absent-mindedly.

John's voice was insistent, 'Sherlock, it's him!' Sherlock looked up then and grabbed the phone out of John's hand. He read the text and flinched. They both knew what was coming.

'What does he want?' John was anxious, unable to hide it.

'He wants to play,' Sherlock's lips curled in the mocking of a smile and his voice couldn't hide a certain amusement.

John frowned, 'Why do I get the feeling you are willing to participate?'

Sherlock didn't answer, but focused on the microscope again.

'Sherlock, why would you be willing to take part in those games of his?'

'Hmm?'

'For God's sakes, _answer_ me! Why do you _react_ to that maniac?' John's voice had grown loud with frustration. They might have spent the last night together, they might have been intimate, but that obviously hadn't changed everything. John was genuinely amazed. Sherlock continued to ignore him.

'Sherlock, you remember what he did to me, to us, the last time he crossed our paths? You remember how dangerous this crazed psychopath maniac is, do you? You remember that he is out there to get you?' Sherlock didn't even glance up – it drove John up the wall. '_Sod it_ – Sherlock!' John started pacing the living room in his agitation.

That apparently cut through Sherlock's indifference and he lifted his head to fix his gaze on John. 'John, I'm absolutely capable of looking after myself. Be assured I know exactly what I'm doing. I know how to handle this.'

'You do, don't you,' John came to a halt, he dipped his chin and tried to slow down his heartbeat. He slowly counted down from ten to one in an attempt to stifle the overwhelming urge to shake him. He really, really wanted to shake some sense into this man, but he knew that it would be utterly useless and childish.

He felt a strong craving to touch him, though, and to find some reassurance in this touch, so walked over to the counter where Sherlock was working. Stepping behind him he gently put his hands on his shoulders. He felt them tensing and so he moved his hands slowly downwards, sliding along his sides until they rested on his narrow hips and leaned his head against Sherlock's back. 'Sherlock, I'm afraid. I don't want anything to happen to you,' he muttered against him.

'Please, John, let's not get sentimental. I know what I'm doing,' Sherlock's voice was cutting and John's head shot up with a jerk as if he's been slapped. He'd expected consoling words, sweet little lies - anything, but not this! He'd learnt that Sherlock was indeed capable of tenderness, very much so, in fact, but obviously that didn't extend to what seemed to be the most important area in his life: his work. _More important than me?_ John felt excluded and hurt. He straightened his back and clearing his throat he broke contact with him.

Sherlock's head twitched a bit to the side, but apart from that he showed no reaction. John took a step backwards and stared at his unyielding back, unwilling to touch him, unwilling to go. Before last night he would have filed this behaviour under _Sherlock/normal interaction_, but after what had happened between them, he would have expected a bit more - emotion?

'What do you mean _let's not get sentimental_? Am I not allowed to worry?' John knew that he was fishing – fishing for a sign, an emotion, something that would show him he was special.

Sherlock sighed, this was a discussion he'd rather avoid. He knew that John had a completely different emotional make-up, completely different from his own. But after what they had shared he realised that John deserved at least an explanation of sorts.

'John, listen - there is no need to worry. There is no need for sentiment either. I won't let him get to me, I won't be out-witted by him. I can see through him - he just wants to be distracted. It's not a matter of life and death and I'm in control.' Sherlock who had spoken without looking at John turned on the stool to face him. He saw that John was clearly bothered, unhappy, uncomfortable.

_Oh, this is tedious_. _What have I gotten myself into? I just can't discuss my every move with him and be hindered by sentiment._ He tried a lopsided smile on John and it seemed to work its magic as expected.

'Just don't take it too lightly. That's all I'm saying. Don't do anything stupid. You know you do - sometimes!' John tried to sound stern, but then he relented, reacting to Sherlock's peace-making smile, moving closer to him.

He searched his eyes; they appeared to be clear, open, not hiding anything. He echoed his smile and leaned in for a kiss. He knew what Sherlock liked and he used that knowledge.

He softly nibbled his lower lip before biting down, not too hard, but hard enough to get a reaction. Sherlock's mouth opened in a wide smile. He leaned down a bit to kiss John's neck, working his way up to his cheeks before brushing softly over his lips. 'More?' he murmured and John nodded. So Sherlock gave him more, in fact he set out with passion, abandoning himself, letting go, for he'd already found out two things: _One_ - kissing John was the most exciting and at the same time the most calming experience he could think of and _Two_ - you could use sex as a means of reconciliation or to end tiresome discussions.

xxxxxxx

_John, what do you make me - I can lose myself in you - don't ever stop -  
><em>

For God's sakes - I CANNOT SHUT OFF MY BRAIN! - This text, this text, this TEXT! - What about this text? - Where is it taking me?

I'm intrigued - very much so - this might be a distraction from all those boring cases waiting to be solved in minutes. This man, Moriarty, this man had already cornered me once. But he had also offered delightful distraction.

_Delightful_? People died and I still think of it as _delightful_?

Well, I am able to distinguish between the thrill I got out of it and the outcome for those poor beggars that Moriarty used for his little games.

What does that make me, finding pleasure in such tragedy? A pervert? A sociopath? A freak? It doesn't matter, all I know is that I can't just let it be.

_John, oh my John, you won't like it -_

_xxxxxxx  
><em>

His bloody stubbornness, it will get him seriously into trouble.

This is the worst that could have happened – _Moriarty_. I know that Sherlock enjoyed those little games this pervert played with him – he enjoyed the challenge, the distraction. I don't think that he enjoyed seeing other people hurt or killed – no, he is simply able to draw a line, he can shut off everything that impedes his thinking or blocks his brain. He merely files it away in some dark cavern of his mind palace, available to be looked at and dusted down should the need arise.

_I really fear for him - I fear he will do something extraordinarily stupid  
><em>

Last night and everything we shared didn't calm me - no, it doubled, tripled my anxiety.

We opened our hearts and offered ourselves and I can see that it was a milestone for Sherlock, but now I feel anxiety like never before - like a mother with a newborn child, full of selfless, hopeless love, - willing to fight for him until the end. My goodness, that sounds like one big, soppy cliché - Sherlock would pity me for it - but, what can I do, it covers my feelings nicely.

Could I hold him back? Not if he decides against it.

Will I hold him back? Most definitely.

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><p><strong>AN** I started this story with a little scene from **Reichenbach Fall** and now it turns out that I will move on in that direction. Reichenbach/Moriarty as a background setting to see how they prove their love and how they find out what it means to them. It's very likely that I won't stick to the original storyline ;-)

Thanks for your kind reviews, they mean so much to me ;-) Please, keep them coming! JJ


	6. Zugzwang

**Sherlock has a confession to make – one he knows will greatly infuriate John … but they also spend some sensuous time together ...  
><strong>

**Zugzwang **(German) = (chess)/ tight spot/ literally: the compulsion to make a move

**Enjoy reading ;)**

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><p><strong>Zugzwang <strong>

Seven days had passed since Sherlock had received that text – they had been careful not to mention it, careful not to touch the iceberg of threats, danger and madness lurking below the waterline of _that_ text.

During those days Sherlock had been lovely – yes, lovely. First John had been amused, then amazed. Normally he wouldn't have thought of that word in connection with Sherlock in his wildest dreams, but there was no other way of describing it. Sherlock had been lovely and affectionate and warm. And John had loved it.

Initially he couldn't help but wondering, looking for some subtext, but at some point during the past days he had decided to stop digging for one and to give in to this warm fuzzy feeling that buzzed inside him every time Sherlock came near him. Which he did quite often, to be honest.

They had taken to a kind of _normal couple routine_ and after two or three days John had realised that this routine differed only marginally from the life they had had before. It was the _plus_ of all that kissing in dark corners of the flat – of which there were many - that made the difference – and the sex, of course.

Obviously John was the more domestic type of the two so it had fallen on him – from the very beginning of their cohabitation really – to be the nurturing part of the couple. And Sherlock? Well, he was still_ Sherlock_. Meaning - everything not requiring the full application of his intellectual prowess – and that naturally included household chores - was out of the question and therefore BORING.

John didn't mind too much – he was man enough not to – and besides, living with Sherlock certainly offered recompenses which rendered arguing about mundane things like who was going to do the dishes insignificant.

xxxxxxx

One hour ago they had left the Yard, had grabbed a quick dinner at their favourite Chinese and headed home. A difficult case had taken up most of the past three days leaving not much room for anything else. It had left John exhausted and as soon as they had arrived at 221b his legs had taken him to the sofa not waiting for his brain to order them to do so.

He was lying there, limp as a ragdoll. Eyes closed, arms hanging loosely down his sides, fingers of his right hand softly grazing over the floor.

Untirable Sherlock was pacing the flat, apparently rummaging for things in drawers and hidden corners, judging by the strange, muffled noises that come from the hall, the bathroom and his bedroom. He came back with his arms full of stuff and set everything down on the kitchen table. John half opened his eyes and followed Sherlock's movements. He drank in his graceful body, the beautiful face - a deep furrow above his nose indicating concentration. John frowned in amusement – Sherlock had so much of a sleek black tomcat, from the satin hair to the slanted eyes to his lithe body. John felt a stirring of desire and smiled. In his current state that seemed a far, far away pleasure.

Sherlock was now busy labelling a set of test tubes. _Another bloody experiment? You can't get enough, can you?_ John quietly chuckled and aloud he said, 'Sherlock, why don't you get some rest. We've been running around for days.'

Sherlock looked over to John and his face lit up with one of his lopsided smiles which made John's inside all warm, 'Later, John. I've got to check some data first. Get some rest, don't mind me, I'm okay.' John's dazed brain registered that Sherlock sounded preoccupied, but not entirely lost in his working mood.

As Sherlock set out to arrange the chemicals and test tubes and all the other paraphernalia he needed, John closed his eyes again - it was oddly soothing, this clinking and clanking of Sherlock's experiment. So familiar – so _home_ – and it lulled him to sleep.

xxxxxxx

John's exhausted – those days were really tiring, even _I_ feel it. He's fallen asleep already. He looks so peaceful, completely relaxed, all those lines softened. I wish I possessed some of his peace of mind, of his balance.

My heart actually aches, seeing him there, but not in a bad way, no, my heart aches because he's mine and that's what hearts do, don't they? Ache.

I so long to touch him - I don't want to disturb his rest, though – not yet.

Watching him sleep is like a tranquilizer – It calms me, slows down my ever-busy mind, gives me _some_ peace at least - I could just sit here and watch him for hours - That experiment? No need for it now, really – Can come back to it later. I'd rather sit here with John for a little while.

I don't know how he will react when I tell him – I _have_ to tell him, though - After all, I'm not exactly _alone_ anymore - so it's obvious, isn't it?

I can't go on like that forever. It has been a hellish week – ever since that row we had because of that bloody text – It has been hellish because I _couldn't_ tell him, I couldn't be open. And it bothers me, a lot. Not being open wih him. Interesting.

_John - my John – how I need you_.

For God's sakes, I don't even know _why_ I did what I have to tell him - Exactly. If he asks me _why_ I did it - well - It's as if there is one part of me that is completely independent from the rest, secluded - and it's ruthless. This side of me is an outstandingly selfish bastard with no regard for others, not even for John. But when I snap out of that bastard mode I am truly ashamed, not as far as others are concerned, no – I couldn't care less what other people think of me. No, I am ashamed because of what John might make of it.

If there is anybody who could keep that bastard in reign it's you, John.

_You need to help me – _

_Ah - You will not like what I have to tell you -_

xxxxxxx

'John -'

'John!'

'Mmh?'

'John, come with me.'

John opened his eyes a crack and looked straight into two ice blue ponds in front of him. A smile creased the corners of those ponds. How odd, John's tired brain thought, how charming. Warm lips ghosted over his face, his cheeks, moving on to his mouth. John smiled. The two ponds were dancing in front of his face.

Then he felt two arms and he was gently lifted and carried away.

Carefully, carefully he was lowered onto soft covers. He happily smiled up at those ice blue ponds.

Ghostlike fingers undressed him, everything felt so light - there was no strain. Gently, gently he was moved upwards on the bed and then the ice blue ponds were right above him. He felt soft, warm naked skin on his own and although it was a cool night he felt warm and glowing - and a tingling feeling started to build in his groin, and moved from there into his belly, his heart and started filling out his whole body with longing. He searched for those ice blue ponds, he couldn't see them, they were gone, but he knew they hadn't left him, he was not alone.

The tingling feeling in his groin intensified and he moaned and moved his hips to build up a rhythm and then the ice blue ponds were above him again and he looked into them and they were moving with him, they found the same rhythm and he felt him moving inside him and Sherlock's face looked so beautiful, those eyes boring down into his. Their rhythm grew faster and then more and more frantic and he grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled him down to kiss him, to moan into his mouth and then all went black when they came.

Sherlock had collapsed onto John's body, limp and exhausted. Slowly he let himself fall to the side, careful not to hurt John. They lay there, panting, their chests rising and falling. Although John was fully awake now, he still felt under a kind of spell. As if Sherlock's eyes had hypnotized him. He felt warm, content and loved.

'John,' Sherlock said softly after a while, 'John, I think I did something outrageously stupid.'

John's eyes flew open. It was as if a hypnotist had snapped his fingers and the spell had been broken. John turned to face Sherlock who wouldn't look at him, but fixed his eyes on some point on the ceiling.

'What did you do, Sherlock?'

Sherlock's voice was small, 'I – um – I answered that text.'

John sat up on the bed, 'You did _what_?' he couldn't believe what he'd just heard, '_Why, _for Gods' sakes?'

'I couldn't help myself. It presented a distraction – John, you know I can handle it,' Sherlock tried to inject some of his usual confidence into his voice, but he only partly succeeded. Somehow John's reaction had reduced him to shame.

'So you keep saying,' John pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them close to his body, distancing himself from Sherlock. 'Run to the devil, you just run to the devil – ' he mumbled, more to himself.

'What? - What did you say?' Sherlock looked at John, at his back, how he had curled into himself.

'I said _run to the devil_, that's what you do –' John answered, sounding exasperated. An uncomfortable silence settled between them.

'Answering the text, is that all you did?' John had to break the silence, he needed to know. His voice sounded unnaturally calm, he was trying to trample the beginnings of a blinding rage he felt flaring up inside him.

'Well – no, not really – ' Sherlock hesitated, feeling utterly stupid now, 'I – I might have met up with him actually.'

John's whole body jerked around and he put his hands on either side of Sherlock, pinning him down, forcing him to look into his eyes, 'Say that again, Sherlock. And _please_ tell me it's NOT true.'

Sherlock looked guilt-stricken, afraid, surprised by John's anger – he gulped. Then he steeled himself and said, 'I met Moriarty and he made an interesting suggestion , he-'

But John had heard enough, he wasn't willing to take any more of that nonsense from Sherlock. He was furious and covering his ears with his hands he got up from the bed. Without looking back he fairly ran out of the bedroom, leaving a befuddled Sherlock behind.

xxxxxxx

HE - IS - SUCH - A - BLOODY - IDIOT!

I can't believe he did that – meeting that maniac Moriarty! He has absolutely no regard for others – doesn't care what others think. Doesn't care if anything happens to him – God forbid he might miss out on a distraction from his BORING LIFE! He gives a fuck for my feelings - For _fuck's_ sake, I am absolutely furious – if I had to face him now I don't know if I could hold back – Bloody, ruthless, disrespectful idiot -

Calm down, CALM DOWN! - Alright, I have got to calm down now – Breathe – steady – in, out – in, out – in, out -

BUT –

Hang on -

He _told_ me, didn't he? He told me what he did – he went alone, but he told me _now_.

Is that good? Is that a sign of trust? Is that unusual for him?

What shall I make of it then? What shall I make of his meeting with this maniac? What of this i_nteresting suggestion_ bit?

I have absolutely no bloody idea.

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><p><strong>AN** I hope you liked this chapter ;-) Please tell me what you think – Reviews are _very, very _appreciated ;-)

And thank you so much for all the reviews, favs and alerts so far! JJ xxx


	7. Distractions

**Sherlock meets Moriarty who has an interesting suggestion for him …**

**Enjoy reading!**

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><p><strong>Distractions<strong>

**One week earlier ...  
><strong>

_Jim Moriarty, 9.28am_

**Come and play –JM**

_Sherlock Holmes, 11.23am_

**Why should I? –SH**

_Jim Moriarty, 11.28 am_

**Distractions –JM**

_Sherlock Holmes, 12.58pm_

**When? Where? –SH**

_Jim Moriarty, 12.59pm_

**Battersea Power Station, 1****st**** floor, no 124, 3pm **

**No pets allowed –JM**

_Sherlock Holmes, 02.10pm_

**Dito –SH**

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><p>xxxxxxx<p>

I know I shouldn't have – shouldn't have answered that first text, should have ignored the second and the third. Shouldn't have agreed on anything as insane as meeting him – I really shouldn't have, but I couldn't resist. There is _something_ within me and it's very strong - a surge – a force of nature like a great tidal wave. A force that locks away the sensible part of me - and the cold bastard takes centre stage. Schizophrenic, really.

An addictive personality on top of that. Yes, that's what I am – I am addicted to the adrenaline rush of a good chase – a thrilling hunt – an intriguing murder – _nothing_ can compare to that.

I find pleasure in the intellectual challenge a good murder provides me with, and I find pleasure and satisfaction in playing mind games. All I need is a worthy opponent – Moriarty has already proven to be just that for me – a worthy opponent – a potential partner in a game of deadly chess.

It's my perverse pleasure to win this game of minds I play with him - to be first – to arrive at the conclusion of his train of thought before his synapses have even started to connect – and I _will_ beat him to it– always.

xxxxxxx

Sherlock arrived a good ten minutes early. He had planned on making a quick recce of the place to make sure that Moriarty had indeed come without his pets. Taking in the enormity of this disused power station he realized the futility of this plan. He felt his skin tingle and his pulse elevate at this realization. It added to the delicious thrill he already felt.

He walked up the metallic stairs on the outside of the building and entered through a door on the first floor. He walked along the dark corridors to the office tract in the back of the building. Of course he hadn't come unprepared, had used the internet to get a good overview of the building. Battersea wasn't exactly what one would call an unknown quantity, good source material aplenty.

Moriarty had chosen one of the old main offices for their encounter. When he came up to the right door he glanced at the faded brass sign which read _Sir Stewart Donaldson CTO_ and smirked. How appropriate – how appealing to Moriarty's sense of significance.

Flattening himself against the wall he pushed against the heavy wooden door which opened with a loud creak. Sherlock cursed silently under his breath. The initial aim of not offering an easy target should Moriarty have changed his mind – he was, after all, very changeable - was counteracted by this noise. He was holding his breath – his blood was coursing wildly through his veins – _God, he felt so alive!_

When nothing happened he cautiously peered into the old office and stepped inside. It was vast, more like a hall than an office really. He looked around, taking in an enormous oak desk at the far end of the office complete with an old battered and dusty leather chair. Apart from that the room was seemingly empty. The walls were panelled with dark wood, intricate carving ran along the cornice. Sherlock looked up, the high ceilings were adorned with two enormous chandeliers, the crystal blind with age, but their former grandeur still discernible.

'Impressive, isn't it?' Sherlock spun around to see where the voice had come from. Moriarty, this rather small, mousy man, was standing in front of the huge windows, the light streaming in from behind him, making it impossible for Sherlock to see his face. He was a mere shadow whereas Sherlock was bathed in light and perfectly visible for Moriarty. _Oh, those little tricks, is he really so insecure?_

'What do you want?' Sherlock curtly said taking a few steps towards him and to the side trying to get a better angle which would allow him to see his face.

'What do you think?' Moriarty's voice was impassive, cold and bored.

'Well, given the fact that _you_ contacted me, I think it is safe to assume that you wanted to see me for a reason.'

'Good.'

'That reason being that you want to tell me something – maybe offer me something – maybe ask for something.'

'Good. So far. But what might I want from you, or offer you or tell you?'

'You asked me to come here and you agreed to come without your snipers – at least as far as I could make out – so it might be a matter of a more personal nature.'

'Good - And you came without your pet – How's John by the way? Loyal as ever to the great detective?'

'He's fine, no need to talk about him.' Moriarty arched his eyebrows, Sherlock wasn't sure if he had picked up anything in his tone. He might enjoy playing with Moriarty, but he had a gut feeling that he wouldn't want him to know about the changed dynamic between him and John. Not safe.

'John! – He's so _ordinary_! An ordinary little soldier. Isn't he boring? Don't you need more than just this little ex-soldier? Something a bit more _distracting_?'

Sherlock wasn't to be taunted, he didn't answer. Moriarty smirked and walked away from the windows to the oak desk, leaning against it, hands in his coat pocket. Sherlock could see his face clearly now and he frowned when he realized how weary, bored and tired Moriarty looked.

Moriarty covered his face with his hands and wiped a few times over his eyes as if to chase away sleep or a bad dream. When he lowered his hands again, the expression on his face was completely different. There was a feverish gleam to his eyes, the corners of his mouth curled in the mocking of a smile.

He cocked his head, 'Sherlock, I've been thinking. You are - but please don't flatter yourself – you are the only person I always enjoyed playing with. How I loved that little game of ours! And I know you did as well. Don't deny it, I know. We are so alike, you and me –' He paused for a moment, his voice fading away, apparently lost in thought, a smile flickering across his face.

'Are you done? Because if this is all you have to offer – a character study – I'd rather go and bore myself to death at home.'

'No need to be _rude_, Sherlock. Be patient - I was just getting there,' he grinned, ' You and me, Sherlock – We would make a _great_ team. Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes. The only Consulting Criminal and the only Consulting Detective in the world. We could beat them all. We could out-wit them all! Just think of it!'

'What an intriguing thought. You seem to forget one minor detail, though,' Sherlock walked up to Moriarty, closing the gap between them, leaning in, invading his personal space, fairly looming over him, '_You_ and _me_ – we don't operate on the same side. There is _no way_ I could ever work for you.'

'Oh, I see. Because I am the _bad _one and you are the _good _one. Is that it?' Their faces were very close together – it was disconcerting and Sherlock felt his stomach turn. He averted his eyes and moved away from him. His breathing quickened and he felt a wave of nausea washing over him.

'Because I am the devil and you're the angel? - You are a _dark angel_, that's what you are. I know you – I just know,' the last words were spoken almost in a whisper. Sherlock glanced up and looked over to Moriarty who had his gaze fixed on him.

A devilish grin suddenly split his features and his voice was loud and clear again. 'Here's my suggestion, Sherlock,' he paused for effect, studying Sherlock's face, 'Let's bet.'

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. To buy some time he put his hands in his coat pockets and forced himself to hold Moriarty's unwavering gaze.

'Let's bet - um - that you cannot prove that I was the one responsible for that gruesome murder last week. The one in the news? - The one blaring from the front pages all week? You know, the murder of that famous actor and his little plaything.'

'Child's play,' Sherlock said coolly, apparently unruffled, 'A bet? Right - What about the wager?'

'If you can prove it, well then I'll go down for it and you have the satisfaction of having beaten me.'

'And if I can't?'

'Well, if you can't prove it, Sherlock, you will work for _me_ - On one occasion.'

'Why should I do that?' Sherlock took a few steps towards him again and looked down on the smaller man.

Moriarty smirked and pushed himself off the desk, 'Because you are bored and I can offer you distraction!'

xxxxxxx

I shouldn't even consider it – should shy away from it. Every _normal_ person would.

I have no doubt that I can beat him, that I can win this bet. After all, it's not as if he presented me with an insurmountable problem - So what does he really want?

He _knows_ that I will prove him guilty – So _what_ does he want?

Should I care about possible consequences?

Do I want to _care_?

xxxxxxx

When Sherlock came home John was waiting for him, reading a book in his favourite chair. Sherlock's heart made a leap when he saw John, relaxed, at ease with himself and the world.

He quickly walked up to him and getting down on his knees he hugged him hard. 'Woah – Sherlock, what's wrong?' John was amused by this uncharacteristic show of affection – amused and touched.

'Where have you been? I thought you'd work at home today?' John smiled at Sherlock, his face open, he had nothing to hide. Sherlock winced inwardly, he knew he couldn't tell John, not after the row they'd had this morning. He didn't know if he would _ever_ be able to pluck up the courage to tell him.

He got up and shrugged out of his scarf and coat, 'I had to check a few things connected to a minor case Lestrade ran by me last week. Not important.' The lie had come easily, but he saw a flicker of doubt in John's eyes. He walked over to him again and pulled him to his feet. 'John,' he buried his nose in John's hair, inhaling his scent. He smelled of shampoo and tea and John. He had avoided John's eyes so far, afraid of the unasked questions he'd be finding there - questions he wasn't willing to answer.

Sherlock closed his eyes and slowly brushed his nose through John's hair and his lips gently over his left ear – _I need to drown out the shame – I need to forget my betrayal – I need to feel you, John_. John moaned softly and Sherlock chuckled_ – yes, that will do nicely – _and hungrily he sought John's lips, kissing the last two hours and Moriarty into oblivion.

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><p><strong>AN **I hope you liked this chapter - Please tell me what you think! Reviews are soooo lovely and they really help me to update sooner - Thank you so much for all your support JJ xx

The ofiice in Battersea is a figment of my imagination, obviously, so any decorating or other mistakes are entirely mine ;-)


	8. Interval

**This continues where chapter 6**** (Zugzwang)**** left the boys – John wants Sherlock to explain why he contacted Moriarty, and everything seems to be going downhill from there ...**

**Enjoy reading!  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Interval<strong>

'Tell me,' John was standing in the open door. He looked down on Sherlock who was still lying on the bed, entangled in the sheets– naked – oblivious to the cold. Sherlock glanced up at John who had donned a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

_He must have gone up to his room to calm down. He put on an old army T-shirt and a clean pair of jeans – comfort clothes. He needs comfort clothes, clothes that remind him of his past, his strength, clothes connected to a time before me. _

John had crossed his arms defensively in front of his chest, a defiant look on his face, he looked tired and weary and sad.

Sherlock felt vulnerable and exposed under his gaze, being naked, lying on the bed, so he fumbled for the sheet to cover himself. He had never seen John so cold, so distant, so irritated and he felt panic flutter in his chest like a bird of prey. _What have I done?_

He made a conscious effort to steady his heartbeat and to stay calm. He felt tears sting his eyes. _Tears? - Am I crying?_ He looked away from John and in an attempt to blink away those traitors he fixed his eyes on the ceiling. He made no effort to sit up in his bed, the advantage John had in this situation – looming over him – seemed entirely appropriate.

'Tell me!' John repeated in the same flat voice as before, willingly held bare of emotions. Sherlock recognized it for what it was – a desperate attempt to keep his anger in reign – an anger that could, once let loose, be certainly brutal and raw and frightening.

'I -,' Sherlock had to clear his choked up throat in a vain attempt to chase away all those emotions_, _'I wasn't thinking of _you_ – um – when I contacted him.' He heard John's sharp intake of breath and immediately knew he had phrased it clumsily. He tried again, 'You see, I made a distinction between _me_ and _us_ and I obviously saw no connection between these two poles,' Sherlock's voice was low and he spoke slowly choosing his words carefully as if those thoughts took more time and more effort than usual to be put into words.

'I met him and we talked. I didn't feel comfortable; it's not as if I enjoyed being there. He made a suggestion. He suggested a bet to be precise – a bet which comprises me having to prove him guilty of a certain crime in order to win.' Out of the corners of his eyes he saw John frown in disbelief and he added hastily, 'It's just an intellectual challenge – like a game of chess. I'm not in danger, he didn't threaten me and I can absolutely handle it. John, I honestly don't think that it has anything to do with _us_ – I really think that it is not important for-'

'_Not important_? Now, seriously! – Are you out of your mind, Sherlock? Are you aware of what you just said? Why would it not be _important_ for me if you risked your life? If you risked your life just to prove you are _clever_? Why do you think I would let you do such a thing? _Again_!' John couldn't restrain his feelings anymore, his voice was dripping with fury and he glowered angrily at him.

Sherlock tried avoiding his gaze, the burning anger in his eyes. He wouldn't be able to take this for long. Sherlock sighed and said quietly and truthfully, 'I have no answer to that.'

'You have no - ?' John's hands flew up as if he wanted to hit something - anything - but he stopped short and let them sink again – his fury visible in the clenched fists. He dipped his chin and closed his eyes. Sherlock risked a glance at him and seeing John in that state made the panic in his chest run riot. His eyes widened and he subconsciously mimicked John's posture, clenching his fists, digging his nails deep into the soft flesh of his palms trying to feel some pain that would drown the panic in his heart.

John opened his eyes again, but he studiously avoided looking at Sherlock. When he finally spoke he was speaking to the cold room, not to him. He still sounded furious, but there was something else underlying this fury - despair, 'Well – as long as you have no answer to that …' he let the consequence of what he had just said hang unspoken in the air and left the room.

Sherlock quickly sat up on the bed, making to go after him, but his limbs felt like lead, he just couldn't. Instead he put his feet on the cold wooden floor and buried his head in his hands. He let the breath he'd been holding gush out of him, desperately trying to keep it together, fragments of thoughts tormenting him –_NO, NO, NO! - don't – don't leave me like that – No, John, please – you know me, please, John, you know me, don't you? – It's not about you – It's me – I'm the problem – please help – help me -_

His head shot up when he heard a loud bang and then the front door clicking noisily shut – John was gone.

xxxxxxx

John had run down the stairs and yanked the front door open with such force that it had crashed into the wall. He couldn't care less – If he had woken the whole of Baker Street? - IT BLOODY SERVES YOU RIGHT!

He felt like in one of those stupid romantic comedies – It felt like a bloody déjà-vu - It felt like a fucking repeat of what had happened only a week ago! – But now they were _back to square one_, for God's sakes –

No, worse! John felt that there was no trust anymore. And trust was _the_ crucial requirement to establish intimacy - or love. At least that's what he believed.

Unlike a week ago, though, John wasn't weepy, he was angry – Oh, so angry! – This anger was filling him out completely leaving virtually no space for anything else.

But it was breaking his heart just the same.

John was a very passionate man – as passionate in love as in anger. He really didn't want to let this anger consume him and his love for this _egomaniac idiot_, but it was precisely this anger which made it impossible for him to go back to Sherlock right now; to grab him, to talk some sense into him and to sort everything out. It would have been futile anyway as Sherlock's brain and heart just didn't function as anybody else's.

No, he couldn't face him now.

Sherlock who had gone behind his back mere hours after they had shared the most intimate moments two human beings could possibly share – mere hours after they had both opened themselves so completely that John had been overwhelmed and awed by what Sherlock, this self-proclaimed sociopath, had been able to give.

Hang on! Let's be precise, here - He _hadn't_ opened himself completely, had he? No, he had lain that part of his character at John's feet that he had been willing to lay open. Obviously, there was more to him than _that_ – there was something in him that was ruthless, selfish, reckless – and _stupid_.

John's brain and heart couldn't reconcile these two sides of Sherlock, especially if Sherlock wasn't honest with him. He felt that they couldn't go _anywhere_ without honesty.

John didn't doubt his feelings for Sherlock, this impossible egoist – not at all. No, he'd never felt like that for anyone in his life. He had never been confused by anyone like that in his entire life.

He'd always known quite well what kind of responses were expected from him when he'd been asked - _How do I look?_ - _Do you think she is prettier than me?_

But with Sherlock? Not that he would ever show any interest in trivia like that – No, what he meant was that Sherlock had a distinctively male way of thinking – stronger, higher, faster – or in his case _cleverer_.

And he had to get used to those different thinking patterns in his partner and what it meant to be sharing his life with a very competitive specimen of a man. Only that wouldn't present a huge problem, he was a full-blown male himself after all, but what John couldn't come to terms with was the fact that Sherlock could exclude him so thoroughly from one part of his life and that he could go completely behind his back - could do so without any scruples apparently.

And there was this nagging doubt, this black, awful doubt which tormented him. He was deeply worrying if Sherlock was guilty of one more terrible deceit – if he was guilty of only having _acted_ the affectionate, warm lover.

John shivered - as much from the cold as from all those thoughts racing madly though him – but it _was_ quite frisky and he had stormed out the flat without a jacket or shoes. He wrapped his arms around his chest to warm himself.

He was sure that he had made his point by now, so he turned and let himself back into 221b. He quietly walked up the stairs, continued past the landing and headed straight up to his room.

xxxxxxx

The next days passed in a very uncomfortable silence. John stayed at work as late as possible and tried to avoid spending much time with Sherlock. He avoided him, avoided looking at him, avoided touching him, avoided to be touched. It left him feeling desperate and drained.

And the man in question? He seemed very drawn into himself, very quiet and forlorn. But after one day which had been clouded by doubt and shame the ambivalent sides within him started struggling again, the self-centred, bored bastard leaving the arena as the winner, accompanied by boredom which became so overwhelming that he set out to fulfill his part of the bet and to prove Moriarty's guilt. This, in fact, turned out to be much more difficult than he had anticipated.

Obviously, he couldn't use any official sources as he hadn't been part of the original investigation and he couldn't risk talking to Lestrade lest something should seep out to John.

So he browsed the internet extensively, tricked his way onto the crime scene which the CSI had already abandoned - _child's play, really – you can get into any place you want_ - and used his homeless network. Progress was slow, all the slogging through the internet tedious.

And all to no avail. Everything pointed to the young woman's ex-boyfriend as the perpetrator. A straight forward domestic - and there was nothing, not even _one_ tiny detail that could be trailed back or linked to Moriarty.

Sherlock became aware of how much he missed having John at his side, how much he missed to be able to use him as his sounding board. He missed running his ideas past him – missed _him_.

He craved their intimacy, the feeling of giving him pleasure and receiving it from him in return. He craved his touch - at night the longing was overwhelming – he had taken to his unhealthy sleeping patterns again – meaning fitful at best and not at all at worst. He missed John's affection, his peace of mind, his tenderness. _Oh, damn it!_

He had grown to dread those horrid feelings of despair and panic which were invading him unbidden every second his brain wasn't occupied. So he _kept_ it occupied and threw himself with an almost manic drive into this investigation which ironically made him drift further and further away from reconciliation.

xxxxxxx

When Sherlock came home late again, four days after their horrible row, and didn't find John in his usual chair, he didn't think it odd at first. John had outdone himself to avoid him these last days; he'd probably gone out with Mike again or had decided to attend one of those awful pub-quiz-nights he seemed to be so fond of.

Sherlock switched on the lights in the living room and shrugged out of scarf and coat leaving everything on the chair next to the desk. He sat down and turned the screen of John's laptop towards him. The screensaver was on – little stars chasing each other across the night sky.

_Odd - John usually turns it off when he leaves_. _He doesn't want me to check his emails or the bookmarked sites – ridiculous really – no such thing as password protection anyway -  
><em>

_So -_

_this-_

_is-_

_highly –_

_unusual -_

Sherlock's head shot up, the whole atmosphere of the room seemed changed all of a sudden as if something or someone had tainted it. His skin started to tingle and he felt something fluttering in his chest, like the wings of a trapped bird in panic.

He got up and his eyes started scanning the room. _The plaid on John's chair is out of place and the Union Jack cushion has slipped down to the floor_. He spun on his heels to take in as much of the room as quickly as possible. _The books on the shelf are in disarray, the rug shoved to the side and the bowl with the apples on the coffee table must have been tipped over and not all the apples returned to it because one is still lying underneath the sofa. _

Quickly Sherlock crossed the living room and the landing and bounded up the stairs to John's bedroom. The light was on, clothes strewn wildly across the floor and in the middle of it all lay John's black jacket on a heap of his jumpers, shirts and trousers. _Oh God, it's the jacket he wears almost constantly_ – Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat -

On top of it sat John's phone.

Every single nerve in Sherlock's body contracted, signalling danger and washing a wave of fear over his body. With two long strides he closed the gap to the heap of clothes and grabbed John's phone.

_One new message_

With trembling fingers he unlocked the phone and read the text.

* * *

><p><strong>AN** I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter! Please tell me what you think! ;-) JJ

Thank you so much!

**And don't forget - I'm in love with happy endings ... ;-D**


	9. Choices

**Moriarty has abducted John and confronts Sherlock with a devil's choice. And you will find out what that text said …**

**Enjoy reading!**

* * *

><p><strong>Choices<strong>

Sherlock pocketed John's phone and stormed out of the room, his feet flying down the stairs. It took him thirty seconds to reach the living room, to put on his scarf and coat, to run down the stairs and out through the front door.

_He's got him – What does he want from him? - Why did he take him? He wanted me! – For God's sakes! Take me, you scheming bastard, not my John _–

He hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to _Battersea Power Station, as fast as you can _which earned him a dirty look from the cabbie _If you think so, mate._

Sherlock sat back in the seat, his fingers twitching nervously in front of his face, fear racing through his body. His blood was rushing noisily in his ears and he barely noticed London's streets swish past in the dark. He was totally drawn into himself, trying to accumulate all the wits, cunning, power and fury available to him.

xxxxxxx

The disused power station looked ghostly in the moonlight, the towers casting dark shadows, a cold and stark fortress.

Sherlock hoped that Moriarty had a predilection for repetition - if not he would have no chance of finding them. Panic fluttered in his chest and he forced himself to calm down, shaking himself to clear his head. He would be of no use to John if he ran straight into a trap like a frantic rat.

Carefully he scanned the building trying to keep in the shadows. Moriarty's snipers could be anywhere, there was no guarantee he had come without them again.

Sherlock kept as close to the walls as possible when he walked up the metal stairs. Suddenly he was as sure as he could be that he was indeed not being watched, his instincts telling him that he was quite alone. Cautiously he opened the door to the building and walked down the dark corridor to the old office. He held his torch in front of him like a weapon.

Steeling himself he quickly opened the heavy wooden door. He peered inside and cursed. The room was empty - _Damn it! If he's not here with him, where else is he? - Where are they?_

He stepped into the room nonetheless and twirling around himself he scanned the huge office, switching on his torch, pointing the strong beam of light into all corners – but there was nothing and nobody.

_Where are they? –Think, think! – The last time - he came out of nowhere – he just appeared all of sudden – think_!

On an impulse Sherlock closed the gap between the entrance and the back of the room in a few quick strides_. There must be another entrance, another door – something_. He pointed the torch at the wall – up and down, right and left, searching for a secret door or a latch or a handle. There! Another door in the wooden panelling, almost invisible in the darkness. Gingerly Sherlock opened it and stepped through.

He found Moriarty standing in the middle of the dimly-lit anteroom adjoining the vast office, 'You found me! So glad you did!' His posture was relaxed, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets.

John was not with him.

'Where's John? What have you done to him?' Sherlock tried to keep his voice free of emotions, but a slight shaking betrayed him.

'Ts, ts Sherlock. Let's not be impolite. First things first, don't you think? How _are_ you, my dear confidant. How's our bet doing, Sherlock?' Moriarty rocked on his heels, appearing completely at ease, 'Did you get anywhere in your thorough investigation? Did you find a link - Can you prove I'm guilty?'

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself; he realized that he would have to play along as long as Moriarty had John. But he had nothing to trade, nothing at all, and Moriarty seemed to know it.

'Well, I …' Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to stall. Moriarty studied him with wide open eyes and smirked, 'How difficult is it for you to say _I cannot prove it_?' How difficult is it for you to admit that I beat you?' He chuckled.

'I cannot prove it,' Sherlock said curtly, carefully avoiding eye contact with him. Moriarty's glee made him sick.

'There you go!' Moriarty sounded content, like a teacher happy with his pet, 'That wasn't too difficult, was it? Now that you've admitted your defeat and acknowledged that I am the winner of our little bet, let me tell you something.' Moriarty was grinning from ear to ear now, a truly disturbing sight, 'You never actually stood a chance of winning, my dear Sherlock. Not a teensy weensy chance. You see, there _was_ no connection. In fact, I had nothing to do with the murder of that actor and his little plaything, nothing at all –'

Sherlock was speechless, it took him a second to digest what he had just heard, 'So there was never any chance for me to prove it, to win this bet. But that's not –'

'Fair? Who said I was going to play fair? Did you really expect me to?' Moriarty pretended to peer closely at Sherlock, and leaning slightly forward he smirked, 'Oh, you did! You did! How quaint! That's your weakness, Sherlock. You want everything to be awfully clever and elaborate and you expect everybody to reach up to your high standards and play _fair_. But - my dear Sherlock - only angels play fair, the devil has free choice of weapons.'

He finally pulled his hands out of his trouser pockets and Sherlock noticed the violent tremor in his right hand. Moriarty tried to hide it by covering it quickly with his left – Sherlock squinted – _interesting_!

'What about our wager, then. Since you are not playing fair, I assume you will find ways to make me work for you?'

'Oh, yes! I think so, don't you? Here's what I want from you – What _you_ will do for _me_.' He paused and took a step towards Sherlock. 'Here it comes!' he said in a silly singing voice, 'I want to die from your hand and I have made sure you will go down for it.'

Sherlock's mouth fell open – as much from genuine surprise and shock as from lack of understanding. He gulped, 'You want -? Why on earth would you want to die from my hand – why would you want to die at all?'

'If this is what is required to win our little game of chess, so be it. I – I - ' he seemed to be at a loss all of a sudden, groping for words. The wanted words didn't come to him, though, and Sherlock noticed the look of despair behind the venom. 'I – um – I - have - everything - prepared.' He tried to regain his composure, 'You - um - will kill me and the police will arrest you – I made sure of that. You know I have friends in high places, at the Yard, friends willing to pay back debts. I have journalists at my command, true vultures, and they will do the rest, they will turn on you – and drag you down into the gutter. Let me assure you – you don't stand a fucking chance in hell, Sherlock!' He had found his confidence again and smiled beatifically at Sherlock.

'You are_ insane_! You're out of your mind! I was always willing to fight you, to compete with you in a game of minds. But this? - Why would I ever agree to anything like this? No! - I won't do it. There is no way you can make me –'

'Oh, I think there is, and you know it!' Moriarty yanked his phone out of his suit pocket and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it, gingerly, he knew and he feared what he was about to see. He hoped with all his heart that it wasn't too late.

He looked down on the images flashing on the display and his breath hitched in his throat. There was John, apparently unconscious – _Oh God_, _is he breathing?_ - Blood trickling down his face.

Sherlock couldn't exactly make out where John was. He couldn't see if anybody was with him, whether he was tied up at all. There really wasn't much to go on. It looked like an empty room, wooden floor, it was fairly dark. He could be anywhere. He could be here, somewhere inside Battersea, or he could be the other side of London.

Sherlock felt desperation combined with a blinding anger flooding him and he clenched his fists. He looked up to face his demon again. His clear blue eyes were piercing and full of rage.

'Ooh, Sherlock, you frighten me!' Moriarty exclaimed in mock outrage and took the phone from Sherlock's motionless hands. 'Well, Sherlock. If you don't comply, I will have John killed. It would mean nothing to me. What about you?' Sherlock made as if to walk towards him, but Moriarty stopped him in his tracks by pulling out a gun from the waistband of his trousers and holding it out to him - offering it to him -

Sherlock blinked, confused - _This is insane!_ - He made no attempt to take the gun, but in an effort to gain more time - _Just a little bit more time!_ - he said, 'I still don't understand it. Why do you go to all that trouble? Why do want to die? Why do you need _me_? Why?'

'No more explanations, Sherlock. I've had enough of it! I really have. Let's get on with it –' Moriarty sounded tired and defeated, but then his face lightened up again as if he had suddenly found a new way of amusing himself, 'Let me ask you something. What's it like to be loved by someone as boring as your little doctor? Someone so unworthy of you? Couldn't find any better, could you? I thought you didn't _do_ love – but - hey, even you might want a fuck sometimes -'

Sherlock grabbed the gun from Moriarty's hand then and in one swift movement he pointed it at his temple, 'Don't!' he hissed.

'Whoah! Steady, Sherlock! We don't want you to miss, do we! You just think of your little doctor, Sherlock, and stay calm!– Just think of the way he looks at you when you shag him, his sheepish little face, all that moaning and panting, this writhing underneath you –'

_'That's ENOUGH!_' - Sherlock gritted his teeth and released the safety catch on the gun –

'Don't!' John screamed from the door, 'Don't Sherlock! Don't kill him. He's dying – he's dying!'

Sherlock blinked, he had heard the shouted words, but he couldn't quite understand what they meant – _There's John, oh God, he's alive - John_ – Sherlock took a step backwards, but levelled the gun unwaveringly at Moriarty. Quickly he glanced over his shoulder and yes, there was John – alive and breathing! How long had he been standing there and had Moriarty seen him? It didn't matter, no! Relief and something else – he couldn't quite make out what it was – was washing over him in waves.

'John! Are you alright?' he demanded.

'Yes - I'm okay, I think.' John hesitated a moment, 'Sherlock, please, don't do what he asks. I tell you he's dying – the uncontrollable tremor, the memory loss, the groping for words, the sudden bouts of violence. It's Huntington's disease, isn't it, Jim?' Moriarty's reply was a smirk.

'It likely started a few months ago and it's incurable. It will turn you into a whimpering mess, uncontrollable spasms will shake your body, you'll soon be wetting your pants and it'll leave you at the mercy of nurses and doctors. You could stay like that for a very long time and live a life full of misery and pain. But your insane brain decided you'd rather leave with a bang and take Sherlock down with you.'

John gasped for breath, he was exhausted and Sherlock glanced nervously in his direction. Only now did he see that the gash somewhere on John's head was still oozing blood and it was streaming down the side of his face. John's legs buckled and he slumped down on the floor. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to run to him, to cradle him in his arms, to protect him -

'Bravo, Dr Watson! Chapeau!' Moriarty clapped his hands. 'You're spot-on. Not so unworthy of our great detective after all!'

Sherlock's vision blurred for a moment, but then he fixed his gaze on Moriarty and resumed moving purposefully towards him - and John cried out, very urgently, 'Sherlock!Don't! - Don't do it! He's not worth it. No mind game, no distraction is worth killing someone! We can just walk out of here, you and me and let him die a long lonely death.'

Sherlock wavered and John's voice was pleading, 'Think of us, Sherlock! Please - think of us!'

Sherlock's hand holding the gun trembled. He almost growled, the adrenaline rushing through his veins making him dizzy. Slowly, ever so slowly, he dropped the gun and placed it in his other hand. He glared at Moriarty whose face still bore that maddening reptilian smirk. Suddenly Sherlock felt an overwhelming urge to wipe that damn smirk off his face. He summoned all the anger and fear and frustration he felt and taking one more step towards Moriarty he punched him brutally in the face. Moriarty reeled backwards and slumped onto the floor with a hard thud. Sherlock watched him, satisfied, and leaning down he hissed into his bloodied face, 'Checkmate, I guess.'

Suppressing the urge to beat Moriarty senseless, Sherlock turned and walked over to John. He helped him up and gently put his arms around him. Without looking back they walked out of the room and made their way out of Battersea Power Station.

xxxxxxx

Underneath a street lamp a few streets away from Battersea Sherlock made John sit down on the kerb to examine his head wound, 'I want to go home, Sherlock,' John muttered weakly, only reluctantly giving in to Sherlock's gentle ministrations.

'But your head, don't you think we should go to the A+E and let a doctor –'

'I _am_ a doctor, Sherlock! And I am asking you to take me home – with you.' Sherlock relented and smiled tentatively in that adorable lopsided way he had and it made John's heart leap. John couldn't help but mirror this sweet smile.

In the cab home it was John who broke the silence between them for there was something that bothered him greatly, and for which he felt stupidly grateful, 'How on earth did you know what had happened? And where to find me?'

'When I came home I sensed that something was wrong. I checked your room and I found your phone on your black jacket. He'd left it there for me to find and he'd sent a text.'

'What did it say?'

Sherlock glanced shyly at John before he softly said, 'It said _I've got your life – come and get it_.'

John reached for his hand then and held it all the way to 221b Baker Street. In fact, he had no intention of ever letting it go again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN** There will be one more chapter depicting Sherlock and John's reconciliation – fluffy and sexy – I think we all, but especially the boys, deserve a kind of release after so much tension ;-D

Thank you for all you support! Please keep it up!

_And please tell me what you think! Reviews are so lovely and they let me know that I didn't get it completely wrong ... ;-) JJ_

(I chose Huntington's disease for Moriarty because it seemed fitting somehow. Since I'm not in a medical profession I've certainly got the symptons wrong - please excuse any mistakes ...)


	10. Love

**Sherlock and John's reconciliation – Let there be love and sexy fluff ... ;-D**

**Enjoy reading!**

* * *

><p><strong>Love<strong>

_I am a fool – and I am fortunate _

_I was spared – and I don't deserve it _

_I will make it up to you – and I won't fail_

xxxxxxx

John felt warm and content when he looked up into those two ice blue eyes hovering in front of his face. The realization of what he saw in them made him smile.

All his senses were racing in overdrive, a reaction to all the adrenalin still swooshing through his veins, turning the soft dabbing of a humid cloth on his face to clean it from all the blood into the most sensuous caress imaginable. The slow wiping of the cloth over his face and head left his face humid and his hair standing up in spikes. Closing his eyes he gave in to these gentle ministrations.

There was no pain, no fear, no sorrow - only balance and perfection. When the cloth had wiped over his cheek for the very last time his face felt oddly cool and exposed. Something was placed over his head wound – a bandage - and then he sensed the softness of warm and reassuring lips on his own before exhaustion got the better of him and he slowly drifted into sleep.

xxxxxxx

Sherlock sat carefully down on the bed, very close to John, and watched him. He was trying to unwind, to calm down and most of all to tame the thoughts dancing through his mind – thoughts of loneliness, danger, threats, loss, fear, blood – He was desperately trying to free his head from all the lingering sensations.

He squeezed his eyes shut in exasperation, it was no use, and he sensed that he needed more than just watching John to calm his brain tonight, he needed contact. He got up and undressed, quietly as not to wake him, and slipped into the bed next to John.

It was the first time since their awful row that they would sleep together, here in his bed, and despite all that had happened it felt right and the only possible place for them to be. How ironic really, that they should end up here again, in Sherlock's bed, where everything had started barely two weeks ago.

Sherlock felt that something had shifted inside him – permanently - just like that night when John had threatened to move out. And he knew that it was good, he felt that he could change, become more human, more _normal_ – with John's help.

He snuggled as close to John's back as it was physically possible, embracing him and burying his nose in his sandy hair. John sighed contently in his sleep and unconsciously moved his hips backwards so that their bodies were flush against each other, allowing him to feel Sherlock completely.

Sherlock deeply inhaled John's scent and surprised himself by humming softly into his ear. It was more to calm his own racing heart and to quiet those lingering memories than anything else. He found the soft humming oddly soothing and he felt no embarrassment – realizing this he chuckled. 'Don't stop!' John muttered drowsily and so Sherlock resumed humming them both to sleep.

xxxxxxx

_Tingling, fluttering butterflies – fine hair standing erect on his arms – soft breath brushing over his face – darkness - lips ghosting over his forehead – fingers weaving through dishevelled black curls – John smiling - John bleeding - Moriarty's ugly sneer_ - _John shouting_ - Sherlock woke with a start, opening his eyes wide. He blinked a few times trying to focus, his chest was heaving with the remnants of his nightmare – _God! - Home - John - safety - _He wiped his eyes_ - Moriarty gone - John's here with me – I'm not alone _–

He slowly exhaled, letting out all the remaining fear with his breath, and turned to John. He was here, real, breathing evenly, lying next to him.

Sherlock reached out and gently touched John's hair, slowly gliding down his fingers, trailing them over his cheekbones and over his lips, eliciting a smile, making John open his eyes.

He did not fool himself, he was well aware that there was so much to be talked about and so much debris to be cleared away - hurting and egoistical remarks which still hovered between them - so many worries and fears, but right here and right now he knew what was needed - what he needed - and he answered the unspoken question in those two dark blue eyes only inches away from his own, 'Yes, I do.'

The lines around those eyes crinkled in a smile, causing them to close halfway. Sherlock's head strained towards them, his lips eager to meet John's. But John put a finger on his mouth, softly pushing him away, 'Not yet,' he said and Sherlock frowned in confusion. 'Let me - Will you let me, please?' Sherlock licked his lips and nodded. This was new, exciting - Although John was by far the more experienced lover of the two, Sherlock had been the one to dominate their lovemaking. After all, he believed to be in the possession of all the theoretical knowledge and more importantly he had the ego to be the leading part in bed.

But this felt absolutely right and it seemed to mirror the current state of their relationship -_ Yes, John, take the lead – Show me – Keep me in reign_ _– Chase my fears away_ - Sherlock settled back and closed his eyes again.

John sat up and leaning on his elbow he took in Sherlock as he was lying there. Those impossible curls of his fanning out on the cushion, his lips slightly parted in anticipation, his eyes closed, trusting, offering himself, making himself vulnerable, putting himself at his mercy and John's heart went out to him.

Oh God, he loved this man so much, had done so for months if he was honest with himself. This love was like a physical pain inside his chest, and those last days when he had believed everything was lost had almost broken him. Because where would he go, what would he do, what would he _be_ without him?

Sherlock and John - That was an entity

John tried to blink back the tears that invaded his eyes and were threatening to spill over. He bent down to caress Sherlock's neck, sliding along the soft skin with his nose, flaring his nostrils all the better to inhale his scent, leaving a trail of silent tears on his marble skin. A shiver went through Sherlock, his lips twitching into a smile.

John moved his head upwards, his lips taking over from his nose then, gently, gently brushing along this long, slender neck and Sherlock tilted his head back into the cushion to give John better access.

'Do you trust me?' John murmured against his jaw, 'Yes' came the soft reply. John nipped at the sensitive skin just below Sherlock's jaw line with his teeth, there was a sharp intake of breath, 'Can I trust you?' he whispered and a second 'Yes,' spoken without any hesitation. John smiled against Sherlock's soft skin.

He lifted his head to kiss him, brushing over his warm lips, his tongue dictating their rhythm, licking over the soft cupid's bow, delving into his mouth. The pace John set was slow and sensuous.

Deep, tender kisses, witness foremost of love and then of passion. John forced himself to keep his eyes open, to watch Sherlock come undone. John wanted to relish every second of this moment, of Sherlock's surrender – no, of their reunion. He didn't want to think in those competitive terms, that was something he very much wanted to leave behind. Nonetheless he liked to be the one taking the lead for once and it was very arousing to watch Sherlock submit.

He sensed Sherlock's growing desire, matching his own - his restlessness, his arousal. His hips squirming beneath John urging him to move faster, with more determination. Sherlock moaned into his mouth, grabbing his head, trying to bring him closer, closer. His whole body was aching with want, with desire, with – 'Slow, Sherlock. Don't rush,' John tried to calm him, tried to keep this unhurried, loving pace, meant to bring them slowly and gently to the edge** - -**

It left both of them shaking, trembling, holding on to each other as if letting go would mean more than just a momentary separation.

'That was - different,' Sherlock whispered, smiling into John's face, awed by what he was feeling.

John gently traced his fingers along his cheekbones, 'God yes, Sherlock, that was different,' he kissed him again, slowly and tenderly - '_That_ was love.'

xxxxxxx

They lay in Sherlock's bed, a comfortable silence engulfing them in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Sherlock was lost in thought, absentmindedly caressing John's arms and shoulders, moving his fingers up and down in a soothing motion. John seemed to have dozed off and Sherlock chuckled when he heard the soft snoring.

He was acutely aware that the last days had changed the atmosphere between them, their bond had become more fragile, but also stronger. More fragile because they both had realised that Sherlock would always have to fight this demon called boredom and that it might lead him to go off on his own again – and stronger because both of them knew for certain that they loved and were loved in return. And Sherlock knew that if there was someone he would allow to keep him in reign it was John.

But there was something else that bothered Sherlock. He knew that _normal people _put those sentiments into words eventually. That it was somehow expected. But Sherlock could not envision himself saying those three blasted words aloud. He had never done it before, had never felt it before. What bothered him was the thought that John would surely want to hear it from him and that he had no desire to disappoint him again.

He was sure of what he felt and he could express it with his actions, he could be tender and loving, but to actually put it into words – well, that was quite another matter. It bothered him greatly that he didn't know what _exactly_ was expected of him in that area – no cross-references possible, nothing stored in those vast chambers of his mind palace. He decided he would have to go purely by instinct.

xxxxxxx

Clearing the desk in the living room had taken some time, what with all the papers and books and case notes wildly strewn atop of it, but they had managed together and finally sat down for breakfast. John's head wound was throbbing and he still felt a bit woozy, he could feel a bout of migraine lurking in the back of his head.

Still he had opted for a proper breakfast whereas Sherlock barely nibbled on a slice of buttered toast and nipped only occasionally from his cup of sweet, milky tea. He seemed preoccupied.

'Sherlock, could pass me the tea, please,' John asked and Sherlock obliged, pouring John another cup. He took his time putting down the teapot on the coaster again, clothing it carefully in its teacosy.

Sherlock sat back on his chair and clasped his fingers in front of his face in his customary fashion. Arching his brows he made as if to study John, his gaze lingering on his face. John frowned under the scrutiny of his piercing eyes, feeling distinctly uneasy. _Bloody hell, those eyes will be my death one day_! It was quite a feat for John not to shy away, but to hold his gaze unwaveringly.

'I think I figured it out, John,' Sherlock eventually declared, adopting a serious look, his voice tense and low, his eyes roving over John's face - _Oh John, don't look so frightened, you have nothing to worry, nothing at all_ – and then, a smile curling the corners of his mouth, he said, 'You love – you love _me_!'

'Good! That's good deduction,' John nodded his approval, barely able to refrain from grinning. Unobtrusively he let out a sigh of relief.

'The thing I had to figure out, though and which puzzled me at first and really took much longer than it should have is this,' he leaned forward, his gaze intensifying, and whispered, 'I love you, too'

Sherlock watched John's reactions intently, studying them, filing them away to pour over later, and when he saw the smile lighting up John's handsome features, the love in his eyes, the flush spreading across his cheeks and when he felt his own heart leap at the sight of his John, he decided that it really wouldn't bother him too much to say these few little words once in a while.

The End

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><p><strong>AN** I couldn't resist – A truly happy ending! Tell me what you think!

Thank you for all your reviews, alerts and messages – This means so much to me!

And a big _Thank You_ to the lovely _WitchRavenFox_ for helping me along with the storyline ;-)

See you soon! JJ x


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